


homme fatale

by MakeAStriderSmile



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, M/M, Slow Burn, blame the SAF Discord, i promise im not just rewriting the whole musical even if i am a little bit, tags will change as chapters are added, well slow-ish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22405150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MakeAStriderSmile/pseuds/MakeAStriderSmile
Summary: Agent Owen Carvour, returned to the CIA after a nice long mourning period, is sent back onto the job to retrieve a bomb, rumored to be traded to someone known in espionage circles as the deadliest woman alive. He probably would have managed to successfully interrupt the trade off too-- if not for the gorgeous American that just sidled on into the meeting.--this was birthed entirely from the SAF discord and their brilliant, stunning, impeccable minds, i am but a conduit, rewriting this musical because i wanted more owen content and more seductive curt, please do give it a read! :)
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27





	homme fatale

**Author's Note:**

> "reverse au except owen is curt, tati is owen, curt is tati, and barb and cynthia switch" and thus began the unhealthy addiction i have to this au, and a few pictures and a lot of frantic dming about how brilliant homme fatale curt is later, here we are!
> 
> (ive actually had this chapter done a while, i just couldnt be bothered leaving it unpublished while i wrote the next chapters, but! i am Going to try finish this!)
> 
> hugest hugest thanks to the saf discord for being so lovely and welcoming, a shout out to dawn, who has been supporting my half asleep au ramblings, and the Largest shout out to percy, without whom this story would never have been realised.

The first time they meet, he doesn’t even know his name. He just knows him as the flirty American. It's Owen's first mission back after his… perhaps overlong grieving period for his partner. He knows she likely wouldn't have wasted years on mourning, she had been far less prone to bouts of mission impeding sentimentality, especially when he came into the equation. And to be fair, she also couldn't grow a terrible mourning beard. He had known how it looked, he just… couldn't bring himself to do anything about it. Shaving it was out of the question. Too much effort. He'd started draping sheets over the mirrors in his flat, so he honestly wasn't even sure what _he_ looked like nowadays. Probably tired. Probably sad.

Four years of chainsmoking and receding within himself hadn't exactly done wonders for his skills, nor his confidence, so when he looked up from his surveillance on the Deadliest Woman Alive and her explosives dealer to see a man slinking through shadows to take his own shot at snatching up the bomb in question, he was more thrown off his rhythm than surprised. For all he knew, the agency had sent out another agent to mop up any sort of spill he made here, metaphorically speaking. Or to kill him, if he compromised himself so badly due to lack of up-to-date training that he forfeited any legal immunity he had earned when he ditched MI6 to join up with the CIA.

But he was still Owen bloody Carvour. He was- he is- he's supposed to be the best of the best. He had to do this. For Tatiana if nothing else, the ghost of her complete with her perfume lingering in the air practically choking him with the scent of lilies and chrysanthemums as the other man, an American judging by his accent, forced the dealer and prospective buyer alike to put their hands up. 

"I have insurance on the bomb, but please don't touch the pastries-" protests the man, already sweating, either from the muggy warmth or the sheer panic of losing the box of baked goods, bought specially for the occasion, left so close to Owen's hiding spot. 

“Well. That was fast,” drawls the woman, her accent light and pleasant, vaguely European, tucking her gun into her pocket and raising her brows at the American.

“Shut up,” he snaps in turn, and this feels like Owen’s cue to butt in, maybe salvage at least a scrap of his dignity, vaulting himself over the stairs and landing with a knee-rattling thump (to be fair, that trick used to work, and be damn intimidating too, though now he was pretty sure he was going to need to ice those knees, shit, that _hurt_ ).

“I second that, old boy, do kindly be quiet.” He pipes up, gun already aimed at the woman, who, at the sound of his voice, was slowly turning around, recognition and fury in her eyes.

“ _You._ ” She practically snarls, and isn’t that odd, he didn’t realise he’d slighted an assassin any time in the past four years. Certainly none that matched her description, lean and dressed all in black, her dark hair pinned back severely, framing her furious grey eyes. She stalks up to him, snatching his gun out of his hands and emptying the clip in a smooth gesture before tossing the gun right back at his face. It’s lucky he even managed to catch it before it cracked him in the nose. Thank god his reflexes were still somewhat honed. Stalking away, she heads up the stairs, only stopping to point a sharp nailed finger at him, painted immaculately red, and accusing, “This is far from over between us, Carvour,” before fleeing the scene.

“Fuck,” is all he manages to mutter under his breath before the salesman is shouting indignantly, presumably after the woman, “Hey! We aren’t finished here, lady!” and moving as if to follow.

The American in turn steps in closer and informs him, all sweetness now that the potential of an assassin is out of the picture, “Don’t worry, we’re definitely finished h-”

“Here!” Owen interjects, rapidly feeling like he’s losing control of the situation, voice cracking a little in the middle, stepping in closer on the man’s opposite side, close enough to touch the box of pastries sitting on the ledge above them. “We’re done here,” he finishes, a little more confidently. Yeah, beat that, Yank.

At this, Sergio just looks at him, cocks his head, and says, almost chidingly, “Agent Owen Carvour, wow... I really thought you’d be taller.” This throws both Owen and the American for a loop, and they blink as he continues, “You’re him, right? Best of the best! My people worked with your people when you started working CIA, man, you were amazing. I was _going_ to ask for your autograph but… eh. You’ve lost your edge, guy.”

He’s almost tempted to say something in retaliation. Can’t mock the height, he’s the same height as Owen. Same build too. Shit. He has nothing. Well. When in doubt, go for the heart.

He snatches the box of pastries, holding it above his head like he’s about to throw it to the ground. He can’t exactly shoot them with an empty gun, wouldn’t make much of a threat. But smashing them… well. He heard the tale, anniversary and dedication and all, poor thing would probably rather faint dead away if he so much as jostled the box too much, never mind the weapon the American was pointing directly at his head.

That seems to be an appropriate motivator, forcing the man to his knees as he pleads for mercy, for the saving of his delicate treats, so easily broken.

“You’ll leave the bomb to me and I’ll give them back.” He offers, as lightly as he would lend someone a pen.

Nodding profusely, Sergio damn near bursts into tears when Owen gently returns his precious cargo, and practically runs out of the room, thanks in at least three languages pouring out of his mouth even as his voice trails off down the street.

It’s then that he sees the American edging toward the bomb. When he runs forward to grab it, his hand wraps around the paler one already clutching the handle. He smiles his winning smile and says, “So lovely of you to join us here today, but I’d better be off.”

“Pretty sure the only one getting off here is me, Mr. Carvour.” Replies the American, grinning crookedly and singlehandedly managing to send all of Owen’s blood up to his face, flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. Fuck, he’s losing traction here, quick, find something to use.

Pulling the briefcase closer, he laughs, drawling, “Hilarious, love, now quit playing games.”

Unaffected, the other man only jerks the briefcase back, informing Owen more seriously, “This isn’t a game to me.”

Frustration rising, he pulls again, but only manages to pull it between them, snapping, “Listen here! I need to take this back to my superiors, else I come out of this mission looking like a damned fool.”

And then a hand is on his face, raking his gun callused fingers along his jaw through his unkempt beard as the American says, sweet as sugar, “Oh, I don’t think you need any help looking like a fool, darlin’.”

And then there’s a knee being jammed into his stomach, and he’s ashamed to say it winds him, bringing him to his knees, hand loosening over the other’s just enough that he can wrench it free, and as Owen struggles for breath, he looks up to see the man look over his shoulder, winking before he climbs back up the ladder he descended.

It’s only then that Owen realises he’s fucked. Barb is going to have his head. He’s so, so fucked. 

Or he would be.

If he hadn’t snuck his free hand into the pocket of the man’s slacks while he was too busy feeling up his face and procured the card that contained his next rendezvous address, likely where he was meeting with whatever agency he was currently working for. He knew it couldn't be CIA, which left him as a free agent. And a free agent was just as dangerous in his eyes as the woman that had been vying for the bomb before he interrupted. Though he was sure Barb wouldn't agree.

Owen smirks as he reads aloud, “Richman’s Casino, Monte Carlo.” Pushing himself to his feet, he murmurs to himself, blissfully self-congratulatory, “And you’ve still got the magic touch, well done, Carvour.”

Time to see if that would be enough to sate Barb’s bloodlust. Maybe he could use the beard as a way to escape the country without her noticing. 

Probably not. She probably had Cynthia tracking his every move anyway, bless that woman's beautiful, icy cold heart.

Might as well just face the beast head on and make headway on stealing that bomb back from that unfairly pretty American before he was murdered brutally for so thoroughly fucking up his first mission back.

**Author's Note:**

> like i said, im gonna try finish this, but the combination of adhd, work and The Depressions means my motivation is a rickety roller coaster!
> 
> hmu on tumblr at martindeservesbetter, on twitter at feraltender, uhhh, idk, i had a thought but build me up buttercup started playing next door and i just started vibing
> 
> uhhhh have a good day, i love you, drink some water, tell your pets i love them?


End file.
